I’ve always been a power commuter, when it comes to public transportation.

My theory on commuting is to get it over with as quickly as possible. Sure, some commutes require periods of inactivity or simply waiting for the train or the bus or the boat or whatever, but if you can be moving, why sit still?

In Vienna, as a member of the Clydesdales, we were able to shave a 35 minute commute to about 15 minutes. How? We walked most of it! Our butts were bumpin’ our fanny packs down the sidewalk as we stormed down the sidewalks muttering “Pass Auf!” at the strolling types and weaving through the human obstacles emerging from the pet store with their shark bait hound in the crook of their arm or the mother with the child barely in tow, gnawing on a giant sausage. Navigating with aplomb and a keen sense of direction, we burrowed through the tunnels of five story buildings, cutting through courtyards, sidestepping the minefields of dog turds that are the sidewalks of working-class Vienna.

Tone’s head would spin in circles as Jason and I guided him through the Viennese streets at breakneck speed. We never got lost, but we almost always arrived sweating. In Atlanta, with the humidity and the whole “hotlanta” thing going on, walking part of the commute is a much less attractive option. Especially in a professional situation in which one does not have access to a shower or a King Kong sized Ban roll-on.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I pride myself on my MARTA skills. I’ve been doing this long enough that I know exactly where to place my ass on the train so that I’m almost with exception the first one out of the train, the first one down to the platform, the first one through the turnstile. But I think I have met my match.

I was busting out of the train at Five Points with the downward staircase to the North Bound Trains Platform directly in front of me. I was aware of a large human in my peripheral vision as I took my first step down the stairs in my usual rat-tat-tat style, one step at a time to accommodate the steepness of the incline. Suddenly, I witnessed the most powerful, mighty commuter ever. He didn’t look too different from me. White guy. Late twenties or early thirties. Chinos cinched with a black belt, white dress shirt tucked in with the sleeves rolled up. I remembered him instantly. He got on at the same stop as did I. He had run, from the end of the station to the platform, when he saw the train and entered the train just as the doors did their beep-slide-kerplunk. He was huffing and sweating in the front of the car, tucking himself in to the rider nook where people in the know like to gain some sense of personal space.

Just as I noticed him, which, as I mentioned was just as I began down the stairs, he bounded past me. This incredible behemoth of a commuter was bounding down the stairs two at a time, using no hands on the rails. His large feet were just barely touching each step. He was down before I was even four steps past the landing where the stairs change directions in the middle. I was floored.

So, to the Leviathan, Dom, Big Poppa, Mack Daddy of commuting, I tip my hat in respect and awe. You have inspired me to begin again and strive for the greatness I once felt I possessed.